The Buns That Got Away: A Case for Radical Acceptance

When was the last time you burst into tears because you couldn't find two buns you'd just bought? I can’t be the only one, can I?

Oct 18, 2024

I was walking home, carrying two brioche buns meant for breakfast. Once home, I showered, grabbed a plate, laid a slice of butter on it, and brewed a fresh cup of coffee… only to discover the buns were nowhere to be found.

I checked the usual places—on the desk, the bed, the floor. Nothing.

Weird. How is it possible?

I flung open drawers, yanked back curtains, and hurled the blanket to the floor, hoping they’d reappear from some hidden corner. Still no sign. The buns had vanished!

For a second, I wondered if the cashier at the bakery played some elaborate prank on me—handing me an empty bag just to watch me slowly unravel. Wouldn’t be the first time someone weaponized bread against me.

Somewhere in the middle of the search, I tried to comfort myself.

It’s only $1.50. No big deal.

But The Tyrant—my anxious mind—wouldn’t let it go.

He leaned back in its invisible velvet chair, swirling an invisible glass of whiskey, and said, “Well, well, well... losing bread now, are we? What’s next, forgetting your pants at the gym?”

Me: “No, I was just careless this time.”

The Tyrant: “That’s what you said the last time, you dumb ass. Tell me—how will you avoid such a mistake in the future? Hmm?”

Me: “I guess—I guess I… can be more careful?”

At first, that reasoning felt logical. But deep down, it was hollow. How much more careful could I be? I had done my best. I always do. And yet, mistakes still happen. The self-reproach only made me feel worse.

I slid down the wall. My knees pulled in tight. The butter, once firm, had melted into a glossy puddle, gold spreading across the plate. The coffee, forgotten, no longer steaming, sat beside it. The air grew heavy, the weight of mistakes pressing down, until finally, like the butter, I surrendered, tears pooling in the stillness.

I thought of the time I wore slippers to a tennis match. I got disqualified, of course. And that final interview: me rambling, the partner’s smile fading as I lost him halfway. And leaving my soya bean drink—a luxury for my family at the time—at a bus stop. My mom’s glare burned through me: “Why are you like this?”

Society, just like my mom, loves to tell us that every mistake is a chance to learn and grow. “You can never make the same mistake twice,” they say. The second time, it’s not a mistake—it’s a choice. So, every time I stumble, I remind myself: Ah yes, yet another opportunity to grow. By this logic, I should be at least six feet tall by now. Spoiler: I’m not.

The problem with this mentality is the insidious message hidden beneath: If you don’t learn something, you’ve failed.

This mindset pressures us to extract meaning from every misstep, turning life into a series of self-improvement tasks. And in chasing improvements, we forget how to just be. We stop giving ourselves permission to sit with our stumbles. To let them exist. To not demand growth from them.

What if we stopped treating mistakes as a lesson in disguise? What if we simply let them exist, felt whatever emotions they brought, and let them go?

That’s where radical acceptance steps in. It’s about embracing our mistakes without the need to fix, analyze, or grow from them. It’s letting ourselves just be. No judgment. No pressure. And knowing that we’re still worthy.

Of course, The Tyrant couldn’t stand the idea.

“Mediocre!” he bellowed, smashing the whiskey glass.

He smoothed down his invisible suit, shook his head, “How will you improve if you don’t reflect on your mistakes? You can’t just let them go!?”

And somehow, the glass was back in his hand, swirling as if it had never shattered. His face drooped with disappointment. “All you’ll ever be is… fine. Just… fine.”

He sighed. Then, he took a slow sip from his Glencairn glass. “God help us all,” he muttered.

What The Tyrant didn’t understand was that radical acceptance isn’t giving up or accepting mediocrity. It’s about trusting that growth will come naturally—when it’s ready, not when we force it. We don’t have to consciously study mistakes to grow. Growth sneaks up on us, like how our bodies heal while we sleep.

I’ve seen this in tennis. If players dwell on a missed shot, they choke on the next point. The key is to move on, trusting that improvement will come through repetition and experience. Life is no different. Mastery lies in playing the next point without carrying the weight of the last one.

Embracing this mindset isn’t easy. Radical acceptance isn’t mastered in a day. It takes time. A lifetime, even. It demands effort—a conscious choice to push back. To resist. To rebel against the relentless urge to improve.

In that moment with the buns, I didn’t suddenly feel peaceful. Far from it. I cried—not just for the buns, but for all the mistakes I’d carried with me. It hurt. And still, I chose not to demand redemption.

“Oh, crying now, are we?” The Tyrant sneered, pacing before me.

I wiped my face, but his words slithered under my skin like cold fingers, creeping up my spine.

“I mean, sure, why not? Nothing says success like a good old sob-fest over some missing buns. Next thing you know, you’ll be crying on your deathbed: ‘Waaaah, I had big goals, but the brioche escaped me!’”

The Tyrant’s fog of expectations shrouded the kitchen, suffocating me to the verge of breaking, ready to dive headfirst into the spiral he demanded.

“You've got big goals, don’t you? Building that cozy little home with the loves of your life. A soulmate. Two kids. A backyard garden. A cat who thinks it owns the place. And a dog that, for some reason, wears bandanas. Tell me—how, exactly, are you planning on achieving them if you’re just crying here and refusing to reflect on your mistakes? Hmm? Hmm?”

The dog in the bandana was a low blow—we’d agreed long ago that the bandana was off-limits in all critiques. But here we are, weaponizing my poor fashion choices for pets.

“Okay, okay!” I threw up my hands. “I’ll replay it. I’ll think about how I lost the buns, how I can be more care—”

He smirked, pleased, lifting his glass as if to toast my surrender.

But just as I teetered on the edge, a defiant voice within me stirred and whispered.

Wait wait wait—

I took a deep breath, letting it fill the space The Tyrant usually occupied.

“Or maybe,” I met his gaze, my voice steadier than I expected. “Maybe I won’t.”

The Tyrant froze, his glass midair, confusion flashing across his face like someone who’s just realized they accidentally ordered a decaf.

“What do you mean you won’t? You have to. This is how you get better!”

“No. I don’t have to do anything.” I swiped the last tear from my cheek. “I can just let the mistake be.”

He staggered backward, clutching his chest as though I just told him that gluten-free bread was the future. “But—but that’s mediocre!”

“Maybe it is.” I shrugged. “But that’s okay. I don’t need to be more than I am right now.”

I grabbed the coffee and clanged it against his whiskey glass, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room.

“Cheers, mate. Thank you for always worrying about me.”

The Tyrant stood there. Mouth agape. His glass aloft.

Then, with a stiff, backward glide—his eyes never leaving me—he retreated into his velvet chair, muttering something about “wasted potential” and “the decline of civilization.”

He set his glass down on an invisible side table, and every few minutes, leaned forward to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle in the upholstery, as if tidying up the place—though really, just to remind me that he was still there. Which, frankly, was downright rude. Not because of the constant reminders, but because he kept adding new fixtures. And hadn’t paid a dime in rent.

Even as his muttering faded, the truth remained: the buns were gone. Really gone.

Maybe they left on their own. Maybe they knew I wasn’t ready for them yet. Perhaps they’re out there, somewhere—crusty little philosophers—waiting for the right time to re-enter my life. And when they do, I’ll be ready, with open arms and butter.

And maybe that’s the lesson they’re trying to teach me: growth isn’t something to be hunted down. It arrives in its own time. And if it never does? I’m still here—still worthy, still enough.

Like the butter on my plate—still rich, still glistening. Even without the buns.

I owe a deep, potentially lifelong debt to these generous writers—also on Substack—who bravely subjected their eyeballs to this piece and offered feedback without—not even once—suggesting that I take up knitting instead.